


To the Precipice of Light

by pm_raptures



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, F/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Professors, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29311641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pm_raptures/pseuds/pm_raptures
Summary: Light has attracted me, its golden rays so warm and alluring- I have long admired such triumph and warmth, seeked its praise, yearned its eyes. Had it brushed on me, I believe I should never let go, grasp its spires and relinquish not. I’d go down in folly, that is true, though in happiness I should live- would it be worth it? To lose myself on the brink of ecstasy? To choose ignorance over independence? What I fear, what I aspire- I confuse myself.A golden life awaits not for me, not him. Better be clothed in midnight, closer to the moon- Apollo spare my wanting! Stars, draw me in, and welcome he- Severus- with me, for we have longed for intimacy, for preference- let us wait no more.
Relationships: Severus Snape & Reader, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note* I do not condone student teacher relationships!! Or underage relationships!! Please don't do this!! This just a story- don't take the character actions seriously!! Please!! 
> 
> Actually** I've decided to make quite a change to the plot, and I think I'll go though with it- so it will most likely change the original plot of GOF a bit more than planned (no major concepts will change!! this new plot will be within the bounds of the book!!)

Light has attracted me, its golden rays so warm and alluring- I have long admired such triumph and warmth, seeked its praise, yearned its eyes. Had it brushed on me, I believe I should never let go, grasp its spires and relinquish not. I’d go down in folly, that is true, though in happiness I should live- would it be worth it? To lose myself on the brink of ecstasy? To choose ignorance over independence? What I fear, what I aspire- I confuse myself.

A golden life awaits not for me, not him. Better be clothed in midnight, closer to the moon- Apollo spare my wanting! Stars, draw me in, and welcome he- Severus- with me, for we have longed for intimacy, for preference- let us wait no more. 

~ 

Prevailing upon Hogwarts, our misty train into port, I step down into my fourth year- welcomed by dearest Night and Hagrid, escorting us all up to the castle. First years scuttle about, nervous in wide-eyed awe, the school now rising above us in rapture- golden against the stars. No doubt their stomachs tremor with excitement, wishing to be sorted- expectations nigh. Myself in Gryffindor, such worries pass me- though I am not without anxieties, wondering vainly who I am to sit with, talk, animate. 

Truthfully, I haven’t any close friends here, or anywhere for that matter. I am not sufficient in intimacy- I do not act well with it. Not to say I am without any company- I have a fair share of acquaintances. Enemies I lack, I suppose such opposing interest is not mine to cultivate. In indifference and median I reside, a rather lonely existence, though I do not forget there is worse. I do not want pity, for I’ve chosen loneliness for myself.  
I resolved to sit with Neville Longbottom, another Gryffindor of my year. I don’t mind him much- though I cannot say the sentiment is often shared. I suppose his nervous composition can be pathetic at times, and stuttering unbearable. I do feel slightly sorry for him, however much I reprimand the unfair thought. He tries, and that’s good enough- effort requires great strength, and that should not invoke my pity. Perhaps it’s my pride, but I believe pity shows superiority- that which I do not wish to reign- empathy yes, pity--

“We will now begin sorting! If the first years would kindly gather, we shall start!” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out- cutting my previous thoughts short- as attention turned towards the gaggle of children standing before the hall.

“Looks like less students this year, I dunno.” whispered Neville from across the table, “Gran says it’s because of the Quidditch World Cup- that parents think Hogwarts is unsafe-”

A shush blew across the table silencing Neville- who reddened, looking shamefully at the ground. Acknowledging his comment- I quickly smiled at him, the ugly sentiment of pity rising in me again. 

Turning back to the first years, I watched the sorting intently. I always enjoyed it, I thought the hat fascinating in knowing perspective- in ability to categorize all. Remembering my own sorting, I sat at the stool for just over seven minutes as the hat contemplated my place. I was so dreadfully nervous listening to the hat’s mumblings- I hadn’t a great preference in house, though admittedly wished against Hufflepuff (which I’m sure the members are all very kind, though to be stuck in that house appeared as such an agony to my young self). 

The hat ruled out Slytherin first, saying that my principles did not quite align with theirs- therefore, I could not fit. Hufflepuff followed, though it took the hat some time to let the house go (much to my appreciation). I was truly expecting Ravenclaw, and perhaps I would’ve bore it better. But such was not fated for me, for the sorting hat rang me as Gryffindor- and to that I do not know why, and still do not. I did not feel brave then, myself not of adventures. I scarcely feel brave now, though I try to be- I wish desperately to live up to the name. But what is bravery anyway? What is the true meaning? Is it that of a sword or tongue? Of a heart or mind? Is the true meaning so muddled in allegory that who triumphs in mortal courage is void of moral bravery? But who is to prove what is mortal and moral- who is to say-- 

Once again my thoughts were severed by the applause of the first admitted Gryffindor, a scruffy boy of eleven, looking quite proud of himself. 

After a few more rounds of sorting, my eyes began to wander fruitlessly around the hall- etching themselves into stone carvings, and sailing the enchanted night sky. The candle canopy above gladdened me, the warmth of gold above was closer than the stars, though still out of reach. Ever so, I pleased myself in watching from afar, elevated by its presence- though allowed my spirit to float gently with them. 

Now in careful observance, I watched the Great Hall with reverence. The howls of friendships interested me, along with the waves of conversation and quirks. The setting always looked so trivial when above it- though it gave me a soft happiness in watching such normality of people, of mundane and insignificant verse. But of course, interactions of these are of the utmost importance- they remind us of who we are, that we are the same, and that our lives both meaningless and lovely hold value. 

My attention now drifted to the professor's table at the front of the hall. Professor Dumbledore sat at the head, of course, wreathed by conversing professors. Madame Pomfrey and Professor Sprout seemed to be striking the most interesting conversation, both speaking animatedly to one another- most definitely about the new findings in medicinal herbs. Professor Flickwick sorely winced due to Hagrid’s eruptive laughter, Madame Hooch roaring alongside him. Professor McGonagall developed a thoughtful speech with Dumbledore, in which Professor Trelawney offered her insight (much to McGonagall’s dismay). The whole table was now in amiable companionship, save for Professor Snape- silent in his brooding corner. 

I observed him closely. Such isolation endeared me- seclusion alluring. As I could never reach the golden light I craved, I felt a need for darkness- to succumb to depth. Pulled was I to this familiarity of sorrow, pushed to the memory of melancholy- I now stood at the precipice of choice- the very cliff which I’ve long avoided. Light and dark dance before me- how am I to choose? Which do I fear? To which do I belong?  
Tipping over the edge, I was only caught by earth-like humiliation, for my observance of the Professor had not gone unnoticed, and his eyes flashed before mine- to which I swiftly looked away- a shameful heat rising in my cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note* I do not condone student teacher relationships!! Or underage relationships!! Please don't do this!! This just a story- don't take the character actions seriously!! Please!!
> 
> Actually** I've decided to make quite a change to the plot, and I think I'll go though with it- so it will most likely change the original plot of GOF a bit more than planned (no major concepts will change!! this new plot will be within the bounds of the book!!)

Could there be none but us? You’ve asked that before, I did not answer- I was not ready. Does none exude the light which creeps slenderly through the frame, does it banish my hands from reaching? Does none mean the darkness in which we’re enveloped? Stars: with or without? And who are we- what is ‘us’? What do you mean by such words? Stray must I from gold, if only you grasp me- and I should fall too. 

~

Following the sorting, Professor Dumbledore rose to give his first term speech- explaining the bounds of knowledge, dangers of tresspasses, house points, et cetera. Boring as it was, students hummed quietly in excitement- for rumors of a grand surprise humored its way through the crowd, those of which I hadn’t a clue. 

“Now,” Dumbledore smiled over his half moon spectacles, “I’m sure the majority of you all are brimming in eagerness in what I am to say, and you shall wait no further. I have the great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—”

Before he could say another word, a great crash echoed throughout the hall, as a coarse man stood grossly afront the great doors. Clunking as he walked, a strained hush befell the students, as they all observed the strange man headed to the professor’s table. Dumbledore stepped once, twice, and shook the large man’s hand happily. 

Immediately, the tables burst into conversation, though I suspect this was not the great surprise everyone was expecting- but rattled the school nonetheless.

Returning to the school, Dumbledore spoke, “Students! May I introduce the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody!”

Such was followed by an uneasy wave of applause, to which murmurs encoréd. 

“He’s an Auror, Mad-Eye Moody. He worked in the Ministry, dad used to see him about. There was a falling out or something, I dunno, but he stopped working for them. I wonder why Dumbledore brought the bloke here?” said Ron Weasley, speaking low to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. 

I listened in from afar, for I was a bit curious- a great big man with a strange eye and leg walking into the Great Hall was not that of a common occurrence. Watching the professor’s table, Professor Moody took a seat to the right of Sprout, Snape grimacing on the left. The professor’s eye seemed to wiz around the room in peculiar fashion, as if it were looking for someone- there! It had stopped on Harry it seemed, though such couldn’t be a surprise. Harry Potter was like the sun, Hogwarts revolving just around- though of course, who could blame the boy who lived for such attention? Would it be right to hold survival against him?  
I decided to think no more of it. 

My eyes, alongside the student body, are settled upon the professor’s table- so should it be strange to look as well? My previous humiliation prevented wild excursions, and my gaze refused to grace the end of the table where the reclusive Professor sat.

I retired to the candlelight, my gaze refocusing on the enchanted night above, as Professor Dumbledore continued his interrupted speech. 

“Now that we are again settled, it is my pleasure to announce that Hogwarts will hold the Triwizard Tournament this year!”

The Great Hall erupted into commotion- boisterous applause, hoots, and cheers rattled the windows and shook the stone. If the troll had returned from the dungeons once more, the hall couldn’t be louder than the earthquake ensued now- to which I joined in, to feel a part of the gallivanting crowd. 

In truth, I didn’t know much of what was or the ratified importance of such an event- I suppose no one cared much, but the rays of excitement touched on all.  
Stealing another quiet stare to the professor’s table above- they all looked quite pleased in this year’s homecomings. Looking sidelong at the silent Professor, a swift movement of eye was caught- barely, but just. His eyes were not mine to entreat- I knew this- and reverted such indulgent thoughts from my mind. Attention was not mine to have, I would not be smiled upon in light nor dark- I am a median, I’d do well to remember such. Perhaps a glance, but nothing more.

Perhaps a glance, but nothing more. 

A great clamor of feet stumbled through the portrait of the Fat Lady and into the Gryffindor Common Room, commotion conveying from all sides of the tower- draped in tapestries and scarlet. The newly sorted first years scurried up to their rooms, as the older students took refuge by the fire- creating a makeshift circle of couches and armchairs to discuss the evening’s injustices. Taking a place next to Dean Thomas, I was quite entertained by the furious hoard of Gryffindors of which could not compete in the Tournament- providing my ‘here here’s generously.

“Can’t believe old Dumbledore put age restrictions on the Tournament- it’s sacrilege- that’s what!” cried Ron, jumping up in anger.

“Oh what, Ronald?” rang Granger’s voice, “Do you want to see innocent first years get beaten to death?”

“No, but seventeen is too old!”

“Yeah! Bludger them!” called out the Weasley twins in unison. “First years deserve it!”

The common room howled in agreement.

“Look, all I’m saying is that Dumbledore could’ve had some respect for us- what are we supposed to do now?” slumped Ron.

“Glad you asked, Ronnie-” replied George, “Fred and I are going to pull an old trick on the crack: an aging po--”

“An aging potion- are you serious? Are you so thick to think that’ll work?” 

“We appreciate the support, Hermione,” Fred broke in, “it’ll be just dense enough to work- eh, Georgie? Dumbledore wouldn’t see that one coming!”

Granger scoffed in reply to the hunkering Weasley boys, who themselves were quite proud of their idea- cheered on by the rest of the common room. 

Agitated, Granger turned to me, “Can you believe them! To out-wit Professor Dumbledore- how brainless!”

“What, Hermione- would you not put your name in if you could?” turned Potter, now facing us. 

“No! It’s against the rules! Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Well, I mean if the twins find a way, I wouldn’t mind entering myself,” I replied- to which Harry grinned and Granger glared. 

What I had said was honest- the experience would be one to have- though the true acts, I do not find myself keen. I rather entertain myself with the plight of other’s efforts, rather than my own- I believe which would be quite uninteresting to most. Content in my corner, such infamous house recklessness warms me- as I mold in with such a crowd- they, I am utterly glad to be a part of.


	3. Chapter 3

I’ve always known right from wrong, to section my values and raise myself upon them. Such was my independence and pride- but I feel it faltering. I must lose what I’ve had, what I made- how can I turn from myself? For this is who I am! Tear me in two and it is there. Rip it away, and I am nothing.

I shall not be nothing. 

~

Early did the sun rise, and I with it. We, filtering through the corridors, walked hand in hand- I felt alive with the world, a part of something I’ve always longed. Sadly, the unity was too soon broken, but I didn’t dare look back with sentiment. I carried myself into the Great Hall and sat collected for some time- facing the long windows out into the lake. 

If there was a heaven, it should be now, drifting far into the comfort of sky. To sit and think, to think and be- I could not dream of an eternity kinder, an immortality softer, and existence more gentle, than the one which I now live for a moment. Could I be roused, should I think to leave? To pull myself from sacred reality to unwanted folly? I yearn for the angelic, I yearn for god- though my wings are of sand, my body of blood- how could I hope for betterment? 

Of course, in lack of expression, one can only sigh- which I did- as more people entered the hall. Neville, looking quite disheveled, slumped down next to me and stared glumly at his breakfast. I suppose he was rather tired and uneager to start the term, so I left him in his silence- focusing on my own breakfast instead.

As the Gryffindor table filled, Professor McGonagall took the occasion to pass out schedules, promptly followed by that particular student’s groans and complaints- of which she ignored. 

Neville didn’t bother to glance at his, and left the slip numbly on the table, untouched till nine.  
Though upon handing out mine, McGonagall remarked, “You’ve got quite a schedule, Miss Dickens- you’d do well not to exert yourself too much. Manage wisely.” 

“Yes, Professor, thank you.” Is all I replied, skimming the parchment quickly- though not failing to notice Neville hovering awkwardly over me. 

“Your schedule’s jam-packed! You might have more than Hermione!”

“Let me see that!” Hermione snatched the the paper from my hands, then huffed in aggravation. “Only one class more- though I’m taking double Ancient Ruins- if I didn’t, we would’ve had the same amount.”

“Interesting.” I asserted, turning back to my empty plate- wondering if Hermione somehow developed bionic hearing overnight, and how to combat it. She was quite competitive- especially with girls- about her academic supremacy, and tried increasingly hard to be better than the whole Gryffindor house. It’s rather silly, I think, though we all must have our ambitions- and for drive, I cannot blame her. 

Clamoring about the day, it was pleasant to see the professors again- I admit, I quite enjoy their company. I shouldn’t mind being a Hogwarts professor some day, it’s the only occupation I cannot see myself loathing- to learn freely, to surround oneself in knowledge, I value such ardently. Shocking, that I am not a Ravenclaw. 

Nevertheless, I will carry on with scarlet blood, completing each class without complaint. I was glad to see Transfiguration in the morning set- it being a class of fervent preference. I admire Professor McGonagall immensely, and wish to excel under her teachings. Her cool confidence and sharp wit attracted me greatly, and in her esteem I wished to profit. Unfortunately, feelings of favorite were less than mutual- that to which, I can allow myself to be disappointed.

Lunch came quickly, and I set off with the Gryffindor fourth years to double Potions, to be shared with Slytherins. Insults of both Snape and his house rang through the corridors, though quieted upon descending the dungeons. Entering the gloomy classroom, the two houses separated rapidly- careful not to come in near proximity of each other. Glares and grimaces were thrown across the chamber- looks which I believe would be quite amusing to an outside spectator, who knew not of the rivalry of these opposing houses. 

Setting my books down, I took a seat next to Neville- who I suppose now will be my frequenting acquaintance of this year. 

“Sit down, all of you,” came the Professor's voice, his figure billowing along the aisle to the head of the classroom. “I will not waste time on foolish introductions. You will instead attempt to brew a Babbling Beverage; I expect perfection. You will then complete a short essay on the common uses of the potion by next class. Begin.”

Hurriedly, the class tore open their potions textbooks- I with them. If I am correct, a Babbling Beverage takes in all about two hours to make- time which we do not have, perfection being unattainable. Of course, Professor Snape undoubtedly knew this, and chose to be unkind- that, I cannot respect. Nonetheless, I prepared my ingredients, working swiftly in hopes of lessening the production time. 

About half an hour in, progress made heed, as my bubbling brew looked quite sufficient- the right shade of burgundy victorious. I didn’t mind Potions class much, I actually quite enjoyed it. It reminded me of Chemistry back in the muggle world- a great interest of mine before wizardom. Born a half-blood, my muggle mother was quite set on enrolling me in Grammar school as a child- which I took greatly to. I do miss those days occasionally, however, magic is a better alternative to mathematics- and I shall not journey back to that realm of utter nonsense. 

Glancing into Neville’s cauldron, his brew was a sorry sight- congealed and burnt, such could hardly be considered a brew. 

“I don’t know what I did,” groaned Neville, “I followed the instructions, I swear!”

It was quite obvious that the instructions were not directly followed- and misinterpretation led to the now oozing slop swaying side to side- only held contained by the cauldron.

From a quick study of the disaster, it was clear there wasn’t much we could do to fix it, nothing resembling perfection or common adequacy. But, of course, we couldn’t just do nothing, nor could I let Neville accept defeat. “Right… er, well, perhaps you can add more toad legs- I believe it’ll thin out the mixture. Unicorn mane should counteract the burned parts, and we’ll see where to go from there.” 

I continued to instruct Neville meticulously, speaking only when Professor Snape’s back was turned and such. We were able to produce a liquid violet in color, much closer to the end product from whence Neville began. 

“Now,” I whispered, “I think the book can tell you how to do the rest, just make sure to read very close—”

But before I could finish my sentence, my name echoed across the classroom in venomous tongue- the voice belonging to none other than Professor Snape. “Dickens!” Sharing answers with Mr. Longbottom, are we?”

Meeting the professor’s eyes, they glowed in dark irritation; they frightened me, yes, though also stirred a strong resentment and coldness, which asserts itself gladly in situations of injustice and disrespect. Should Snape refrain me from helping Longbottom, I’m sure this new sentiment would refuse- for its righteousness now stung me deeply, and would not accept the cruelness of another. 

“He only asked a question, Professor, which I suppose you were too busy to answer?”

The moment my last word was uttered, the classroom hushed into silence- my answer to Snape now wreathed in disrespect. Knowing this, I grew slightly flushed, for such brazenness was not my intention. I did not wish for the comment to be so sharp- perhaps slightly passive aggressive at most- though my words quite proceeded the former, and took a rather obvious turn. 

“Take care, Miss Dickens, to not use that tone with me again.” Narrowing his eyes, he continued, “Switch places with Crabbe, your new partner is now Mr. Malfoy.”

Snickers from the Slytherin side ensued as I gathered my things, walking purposely across the classroom, my pace relaxed- but not leisurely, sure- but not of disrespect; such meaningless attention being a revolt in itself. I know better than to blatantly refuse such direction, however, I also knew well to not be content by it- I should reflect only what is given me, and with it, taking the upper hand. But I suppose my honor was taken as pride, for the professor glared at me as I sat down. 

“Do your best not to strut across my classroom, Miss Dickens.” he sneered, now returning to his own desk- unfortunately adjacent to my own. 

Resentment nigh, I heaved my eyes away from the unjust professor and glanced back at Neville, looking rightfully miserable seated next to the large Crabbe- who didn’t look too pleased himself. I reopened my potion’s book, focusing on the tiny print to avoid further attention- which I was not so easily granted. 

“Of course Snape put you with us,” scoffed Malfoy, leaning back in his chair, “I rather wished you kept your mouth shut- like I’d want to work with you.”

Goyle and another Slytherin chortled stupidly from across the table- Malfoy being the epitome of wit, evidently.

Sighing, I responded, “Malfoy, you’d hardly be my first choice either, but here we are. If you’d kindly do your best to keep up, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m not doing any work--”

“Oh yes, you are. I can do the hard stuff if you do the tedious- but I won’t listen to any complaints on your side.” I turned back to my station, and began to work once more- stirring clockwise rather forcefully.

“If only you’d let fat Longbottom fail.” Malfoy muttered, beginning to chop ingredients.

I smiled- such pouting amused me, finding them a rather foolish way to combat failure. Deflecting to those around one is proof of insecurity enough, not to mention the ignorance and triviality which follows. What entertainment it is- to watch anger manifest into absurdity! Though what danger lies in blindness- to which many grow mad. 

The close of the lengthened period brought much apprehension to the class, some working fervently to finish, others accepting their preconceived doom. I was quite pleased with my progression of the Babbling Beverage- now pink in color and smelling of licorice and lemon- though of course, ways from being finished. I poured my concoction into a small stopper, and sought to clean quickly- not wishing to be left behind with the simmering professor, previous interest quite forlorn. Crawling my way from the cavern, I stood rather desperately at the threshold- begging not to hear the undeniable words now spoken:

“Stay back, Miss Dickens.”


	4. Chapter 4

I was never an innocent, I doubt you were either- thrust off the cliff at a young age, without a word of choice. I reside on the cliff myself, I stare down upon the stone and black beating the shore. Do I now fall? Will it be sudden, or slow? Should I be aware or in trance? Would I be bothered at all?

You and I, faced with uncertainty, remain collecting in turmoil, elevated in chaos- and in waves we shall float, or we shall die. I rather fear the former.

~

Halting upon his words, I imagine them rolling off the professor’s tongue and ensnaring my feet- they coil and seize- triumphant in power and force. I turn and face Snape- he, still at his desk- and return to him a simple, “Yes?”

“It seems you have left a mess at Mr. Malfoy’s table. Clean it.”

The table was quite dirty, though it wasn’t me who incited such messiness- more conceivably made by the thick-headed Slytherins, which anyone with two working eyes could’ve guessed. Ever so, I did not argue, and committed to a silent rebellion- maintaining a cool exterior, cautious not to expose any ruse or irritation- one trick I believe the professor and I often share. 

Swiftly was the table tidied, Snape’s eyes remaining steadily on me as I worked. Never did I raise my own- I knew his attention well enough, it of a prickling familiarity I had not placed till now, myself warming under its particular force.

Finished, and quite surely so, I straightened, looking up at the Professor Snape, and said, “Will that be all?” 

“Hardly. Your constitution today was… disconcerting, had I not known you for four years, I’d make the penalties harsher, but-” he paused, “if this attitude continues, I will not hesitate to punish you accordingly. Is that clear?”

“Yes,”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” I glared, he, obviously bathing in such unworthy superiority- one which I could not refute nor consent, an unfair advantage he unjustly enjoys.

“Since I am feeling generous, I will not take away points. Instead, you will clean up after my classes each day this week. I expect prompt arrival- if you do not wish to prolong the experience.” 

“Yes, sir.” I responded.

“Good. Now, leave.”

He did not need to mention it twice, for I left as quickly as I could whilst clutching my pride. Crossing the threshold, I thought as if I felt Snape’s gaze linger- a notion which I quickly put aside for irrelevance and stupidity, determined not to think of it. Upon reaching the other side, I saw Neville waiting nervously for me- and to my surprise, standing with a small group of Gryffindors- applauding as I shut the door.

A series of “Brilliant, Eloise!” and, “Well done!” called out to me- and I, quite startled in this ray of unexpected admiration and victory, smiled awkwardly at it all. 

Stumbling up to me, the blushing Neville stuttered, “I am so sorry, Eloise, I didn’t mean to get you in with Professor Snape! Oh, I got us all in trouble for my dumbness- I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Neville, no harm was done.” I assured him.

“Do you mean he didn’t take away points?” Neville asked, looking astonished, “No detention--”

“We cannot go that far, but it was worth it, I suppose.” 

The group roared in agreement, hoarding about me through the halls, making jokes, references, and such. Ron pushed his way through the blundering Gryffindors and stood before me, quite red in the face. 

“That was bloody brilliant, Eloise, bloody brilliant!” He wheezed, “Telling Snape off to his face! Bloody-”

“Well, done!” Harry broke in, interrupting the ruddy-faced Weasley. “Ron’s right, it was absolutely brilliant.”

“But, surely you can’t justify blatantly disrespecting a professor—”

“Oh, bug off, Hermione!” Ron refuted, “When it’s the greasy-haired git- he deserved it!” 

“Well, I didn’t mean to directly disrespect—” I began, but didn’t finish, or at least wasn’t heard, for the reigning victory of the Gryffindor fourth years downed me out- which I now believe they enjoyed the notion of their triumph more than my actual misinterpreted words, for they were still celebrating by the end of the night- the cause, I think they quite forgot. 

Admittedly, it was nice to be congratulated by the whole Gryffindor house- the story traveling father than its means. The constant throwing of my coined name about the dormitories was kind to hear- conceived from my true name, Hélosïe, gifted by my French, muggle mother, who not only could not speak French, but had never once lived there either- but still decided to connect with her roots (those of which reside with the French art film she saw before my birth). Though, ‘Eloise’ sounds quite the same, and was only given the term upon my arrival at Hogwarts- my full entirety, my multitudinous self, summed up simply within the syllables of: Eloise Dickens.


	5. Chapter 5

If I had the wings of a bird and heart of a serpent, I’d fly away from the agony of choice that I’ve befallen. If I were wise and cautious, I could have foreseen the rising stone. I did not enter the question from above or below- I did not sail the waters at shore, I did not float on clouds reborn. I found it walking, on neutral plane, for the terrain looked endless, and my eyes were on the sun. No longer do I look up, no longer do I stare at the cruel burnings of hope- the fires of longing. Though heartache echoes in every shadow, I need not be the fool. 

~

Quickly did the preparations begin for the Triwizard Tournament- Hogwarts in quite a disarray with such exciting happenings. The students could not be more eager, contrary to the staff- who were in pieces about the torn up scheduling of the school year (to make fit the visitors and games). And as for the visitors- the wizarding schools Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were to be hosted at Hogwarts, guest competitors in the great tournament. Though, such events were still weeks away, and classes carried about as usual- along with the detentions I now served with Professor Snape. 

As promised, I’d arrive promptly in the dungeons each day, clean diligently, and leave almost immediately after. Apprehensions ailed me as I entered the Professor’s classroom (particularly on the first day), for obvious reasons of awkwardness- though it proved not to be completely so. We barely spoke a word to each other- he, remaining at his desk, and I, busy tidying. I did ask once where a certain jar of African Sea Salt belonged, to which he directed towards the pantry and approved my statement. To my dear surprise, I didn’t mind Snape’s company, and quite enjoyed the spurt of silence I received in chores. It gave me time to ponder uninterrupted- time well spent on the observances of myself as an individual, and the similarities I shared with a three-note passage- to which I became quite convinced my whole existence was such, and my being only ever made three noises to equate to the notes; those most likely not notes at all, but movements and experiences which gave way to reoccurring themes and sentiments in my life (the first note I knew as a cliff, tall in stature, with two distinct and irreversible sides - the next, I knew not). 

I cannot say I was too much a bother for Professor Snape either, though, of course, he kept himself (and appreciation) tightly restrained. Upon my completion of the first day, he barely huffed an approval, and excused me sharply with the single word: “Leave.” 

The days following, his harshness leveled slightly- as he excused me in the order of: 

“Go.” 

“Good. Now, leave.”

And-

“You may go now, Miss Dickens” 

Perhaps it’s foolish that I so closely remember each dismissal, but I do not aptly forget- especially in the growing gentleness (or lessening coldness) of his words. Though it gladdened me, I held no expectation of kindness, nor wanted to, for the predictability of his stiffness held a strange comfort- as if there was no room for favor or acceptance, for which I had no need to strive.

And with no expectation did I leave the classroom that Friday, only to be called by the Professor, stating, “It’s a shame you won’t be coming back, you cleaned rather well.” 

Turning back, I smiled, “If only I strut more often, Professor.”

“Yes,” he scoffed- not rudely, having a more playful countenance than aloof. But behold! Now did he say the softened words, “You may go now, Miss Dickens.” 

I left, pleasantly surprised by the exchange- how normal it was! In the whole week of my work, this verse was the most we spoke (excluding the detention sentence, of course). He was still the same, solitary creature I’d known for the last four years, though there was something in his stiffness that interested me. Something in his glare that begged me to dig further, pursue more thought, more consideration- which leaves no consequence. Thoughts- I could indulge; imaginings- I could hire. For what was in their whimsical reality that destruction could plague? What are they, but merely passing? 

God, I must stop these questions- I know well that chaos lurks in dreams, and I wish not to let it take over. I must stop now. I’ll stop. I must stop.

Autumn entered fast, swallowing the grounds in scarlet chorus and anticipation, as the Triwizard Tournament arrived on swift wing- promising thrill and adventure with it. More often did I venture walks outside, relishing the cool air and change of nature- having less and less to do, now in the midst of the term. And more often again, did I wish for calm amidst the excitement, for thoughtfulness and purpose- to be wanted, to be needed. 

I must laugh, for this list is a hopeless one- the type which people cry, though do not fulfill. Complain, though do not try. I was determined to do not either.

Continuing my days, I was convinced more are more that I must find something to do, for I was quite lonely- falling just in between friendships I did not have. I was slightly bitter, I suppose- my pride not letting me compromise myself for company- forcing me to spend my increasing amount of free time alone. As much as I value my reclusive nature, I must admit, it was slightly cruel watching others create happy memories with one another, myself in the background watching. 

Never minding my emotions, classes went about as usual. Transfiguration rose again as my favorite class (as it has been for all my years at Hogwarts). Defense Against the Dark Arts proved most interesting with the new Professor- he, quite rough in exterior and teachings. He’d already begun teaching us about the unforgivable curses- even showing their results on poor insects, torturing many before death. The display was disgusting and unnecessary, I looked away in the end. 

Potions I rather enjoyed after my detentions with Professor Snape. A heightened familiarity prevailed upon him somehow, as the discomfort I once knew slipped slightly away- to which I believe I felt more at ease in his classroom than I did with the majority of my peers. Sitting with Malfoy was no travesty either, and I began to like him better the longer I knew him. He’d talk much- mostly bragging about himself or discussion Pansy Parkinson (with whom I believe he is dating? I can honestly never be sure). Whichever he decided, it wasn’t unpleasant.

Today, we were to be brewing the Essence of Insanity- results found clearly in the name- which particularly requires a wider range of ingredients, most of which were stored in Professor Snape’s pantries. The potion was a rather amusing one to make, for on many occasions, the paste screamed and avoided my mixing- making quite a war between us. I believe the entire class shared in my exuberant struggles, for there were shouts and giggles parading throughout the dungeon chamber- not to mention the great mess plastered about the tables. By the time the class was excused, the classroom was left in disarray, the pantries were just about ransacked, and not a student stayed behind to tidy (for we were no Hufflepuffs). 

But as I was about to leave the classroom with the rowdy Gryffindors, I suddenly had a change of idea. It being the end of the week, leaving me without much to do, I felt as if I had the duty to fulfil my wantings if I were to be deserving of them. I ache for serenity and thought were complicit, my need for purpose agreed- my mind now made firmly. 

I turned back decidedly towards the chamber, and watched the Professor at his desk for a moment. The curiosity I felt the first night in the Great Hall struck again, as the magnitude of his isolation affronted me. In such similarity did I feel a friend- or a kindred spirit- for it seemed he was a dweller in loneliness as well. A sort of comfort befell me, knowing we shared a common ground, that we were equals in deprivation. Hope had strangled us both, the illusion of such intoxicating light tricked us- we who wished not to be fools (for that, I was sure). 

But only in the moment did I feel such thought- though it dare not cognate itself. Instead, my chest surged in expression, muddled in its own confusion- potent, nonetheless. Taking a step back across the threshold, I stiffened my heart- only letting my voice carry the simple word, “Professor?”

Glancing up, Professor Snape’s eyes landed on me, a flicker of surprise running through them. He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you’d like help cleaning up?” I hastened, “I noticed a lot of students returned things to the wrong spot, and since I already know where everything is, I thought- er, maybe…?”

“Go on?”

“I thought I could be helpful.” I flushed, for such an unprompted assertion was quite out of my nature- and asking to ~do~ something- I believe I’ve always just done it. Humiliation ran through me again, it felt now a terrible idea to ask to help Snape- what an awkward position we were both in! How could I be of help to him? What was I worth? Do I praise myself so highly that I’d think he’d actually be in want of my help? I reprimanded myself, and waited for Snape’s answer.

He paused a moment, looking me over, then said, “I won’t be giving house points, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“I wasn’t, sir.”

“Then, fine.” He nodded his head to the pantry, “Start there, if you would.”

I assented, shamefully grateful for his agreement. I was glad of having something to do- even if I had to beg a teacher for it. Solitude and boredom do not do well together, and I didn’t wish to battle both continuously. Consequently, I chose my contenders wisely- hoping with thoughtful movements, I could lessen their gnawing. And I suppose, to an extent, I could. 

Quickly, the Professor and I fell back into our old routine, myself feeding happily off the silence. I worked purposefully, finding myself antagonizing over insignificant details to maintain distraction. Though unfortunately, my toils came to an end with the arrival of dusk, quite to my own disappointment- for I was to carry on alone once more. 

Noticing my completion, Professor Snape asked, “What will you do with your evening, Miss Dickens?”

Such a question caught me rather off guard, for interest or just common politeness was not a normality with the nonchalant Professor. Though quite calmly, I responded, “I’ll go on a walk, I believe.”

“With Potter or Longbottom, I presume?”

“No, just by myself.”

“Do you do things often by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Do you not have friends?” He pronounced the word ‘friends’ rather harshly, to which I was taken slightly aback- the question a quite personal one. 

“No, sir.”

It was now his turn to be taken aback- my impervious answer not an expected one. To be sure, I didn’t quite expect it either, for it paraded itself from my mouth purely on its own accord, with a haughtiness I didn’t know I possessed much.

“How interesting,” Snape sneered, “Since I’ve always had the impression that Gryffindors do reckless things together, that they are the exact picture of livelihood--”

“Not all of us, Professor.”

“I wonder how you managed to fit in, being such an outlier yourself?”

“I wonder the same.” And with that, I walked straight out of the door, not once turning back to view from where I came. Though the spurt of conversation may not prove enough to be considered offence, I felt quite insulted- for who was he to call me friendless? To prey at my loneliness? It hurt me more than I’d likely admit.

I walked swiftly out upon the grounds in the dance of twilight, and headed towards the Black Lake. It faced west rather kindly, reflecting the hues of sunset softly in its dark waters. Slumping down against a willow, grief betook me- as feelings of abandonment racked upon me. It seemed as if I was straying further from such warming light, the beautiful gold which I was so fond- it neglected me, and I felt it now. In spite of acceptance, I hated such innate isolation and reserve- I knew intimacy was not mine to have, I’ve known- though resentment crawled within me, and the turmoil of prophecy screamed deafly. I wished I could’ve screamed too, but instead I watched the water, and glowered with the silencing sun. 

I sat there awhile, watching Apollo sink into slumber as Artemis awakened. My cheeks never ceased dampness during the time- quite paranoid was I that someone should find me, that humiliation seeming very much harder to bear. Few times did the believe to hear footsteps, once did I turn to examine their truth, though I was met with only periwinkle sky and young stars. Silly, that such fears were to rouse me from my sorrow- foolish terrors- I was a fool, was I not?

Gently did the stars return to Night, and I, to the castle. I was quite certain dinner was started, and decided I should slip in to eat- not wanting to spend the night hungry. However, upon walking the courtyard- a tall, dark, pillar stood apart from the stone. 

“Héloïse,” spoke Professor Snape, stopping me upon the terrace. “I want to apologize for how I acted. You--”

He paused and darkened, casting down a look of strain and contempt- the means of which, residing unknown. “I apologize.” 

The Professor billowed away, taking the last of daylight with him. As for myself, I turned to the Great Hall, and began my way towards its light.


	6. Chapter 6

Does existence scare you? Does the median of living crawl upon you with bloodied eyes, begging you to think of the mundane? Do you stare at your hands reciting poems, or look to the sky?

In the soulless hours I walk upon land, at the steep of each cliff, I spill onto the world, in search of something other than mediocrity. I no longer wish to partake in retellings- let me find more amongst the stone.

~

No one quite knew how the rivaling schools would arrive, but no one expected the style and boldness which both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang so dramatically displayed.

Beauxbatons’ arrival was quite extraordinary- and quite French in their extravagance and luxury. It happened in the early evening, walking about the corridors, packed tight within a herd of Gryffindors. Quite relaxed we were getting on, talking of Hagrid's unfortunate skrewts, till a voice suddenly rang out, “What’s that in the sky?”

Thrashing, we raced to look out on the courtyard, to which we saw an excited Hagrid watching a tiny speck from afar.

“What d’you think it is?” said Ron.

“Dunno,” answered Neville, “It kind of looks like-”

“Are those Pegasi?” broke in Hermione, pointing upwards.

“Is that a… chariot..?” asked Harry.

“It must be Beauxbatons!” shouted Hermione, erupting a wave of awes and cheers among the Gryffindors. 

“How’d they fit the whole school in there?” demanded Ron, above the commotion.

“I doubt they brought the whole school—” Harry replied. 

“But how are they gonna compete without them?” Ron questioned.

Harry slowly turned towards him, “Ron, do you actually think they’re gonna need the entire—”

“Hagrid, watch out!” Hermione yelped as the gleaming chariot swung down from the sky- running Hagrid off into the bushes, the Pegasi nearly stopping him to pieces. 

Glowing in awe, we watched as an unknown woman exited the chariot- a giant one- donning silk and pearls, clearly a lady of luxury. Students poured out beside her, looking sharp (though rather wrongly dressed) in their distinct Beauxbatons blue- the uniforms look chilly in the cold, Scottish climate. I must say, we were all quite speechless as about a dozen boys and girls fell one-by-one out the tiny carriage- which we later found had its own dormitories, classrooms, and dining rooms alike. 

Professor Dumbledore, flowing down into the courtyard, welcomed the big lady warmly. “Madame Maxime, welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbledore,” Madame Maxime spoke with a thick French accent, “I hope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I thank you.” Dumbledore smiled.

With a wave of her ginormous jeweled hand, Madame Maxine ushered her students inside the castle- they, looking quite menacingly at their surroundings. We, too, were ushered along through the corridors, professors urging us to carry on- until, again, the same voice shouted, “The lake!”

We all now rushed to look over to the Black Lake, as the ground began to tremble terribly under our feet. 

“Is it an earthquake?” Neville cried anxiously. 

“No, it’s a mast!” Harry called out, as a great flag and banner rose from the murky depths- forming itself into a ship of grand prestige, looking moodily upon Hogwarts. A splash on an anchor was heard as a drawbridge was let down, connecting the ship deck to dry land. This time, a man came from the vessel, clothed in heavy furs and a bright red uniform- quite similar to the rest of his students. 

Reaching the castle, the furred man called loudly, “Dumbledore! How are you, my dear fellow?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” replied Dumbledore, welcoming the Durmstrang students into Hogwarts.

“Harry,” Ron wheezed, “Harry- that’s Krum! That’s bloody Viktor Krum!” He pointed shocked, blubbering to himself, “I can’t believe- he’s here! Krum--”

“Lay off, Ronald, or you’ll give yourself a nose bleed!” shouted Ginny Weasley from the twisting mob of Gryffindors, trying to earn themselves a better look of the famed quidditch player.

“But he’s the best seeker in the world!” said Ron, still stunned. “I can’t believe he’s going to compete--”

“Well, you don’t know if he’ll be picked for the tournament,” intervened Hermione.

“I bloody well do!” he shot back, “This is Viktor Krum we’re talking about…” 

Ron went on, now erupting into a squabble with Granger as a group of girls nearly fainted with excitement- the boys, almost more so. 

I found the commotion quite amusing, as often chaos rings loneliness off. It was endearing, truly, to watch the students drool over themselves in admiration- myself observing from a separate sphere. I was never quite able to join in on conclusive excitement of crowds, however much I wish to, but instead floated steadily above- delighting in their delight, laughing in their joy- though never a part of it- never that. 

The sun now setting, we carried ourselves into the populated Great Hall, where the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students began integrating within the house tables. Most of the Beauxbatons pupils found themselves sharing seats with Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, and Durmstrang to Slytherin- much to Ron’s despair. I personally sat myself in between Granger and Longbottom, Hermione aptly explaining the French entrees to the table, as Neville listened eagerly. 

Looking at the feast before me, I gathered quite a buffet of French cuisine on my plate- it being the first time I’ve tried anything of the sort. Turning to me, Hermione said, “Oh! Elosie, don’t eat the tete de veau- I’ve had it before, and it is disgusting. Here, have some bouillabaisse instead.” 

She passed me the serving bowl.

“Er, thanks,” I replied, pushing away the tete de veau- which my mediocre French skills told me was a calf’s head. 

“If you are not going to eat that, I’ll have it,” said a Beauxbatons girl in broken english, nodding to the tete de veau.

I gave it to her. 

“Your name is Eloise?” the girl asked, now eating the head. “It is pretty.”

“No, Hélosïe, actually,” I replied.

“Oh!” she brightened, "Vous êtes français?"

"Oui,” I answered sheepishly, “Mais, je ne suis jamais allé.”

“Oh,” she faltered, “Je suis désolé." 

“Oui,” I mumbled, looking up at the professor’s table. Four new chairs were stationed next to Professor Dumbledore- two of which were taken by Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff, the remainders given to two men I’ve never seen- one looking quite jolly, the other rather grim. 

Not long after the hall finished their suppers, did Professor Dumbledore begin to speak about the Triwizard Tournament. Admittedly, I wasn’t listening. Instead, I took to watching the new members of our feast- their mannerisms interesting me immensely. It seemed every time a Beauxbatons student sneezed, they’d do so in the most inconspicuous manor- looking down into their shoulder, barely letting any noise out at all. Quite different were the Durmstrang students- for every time they yawned, they threw their heads back with mouths wide, letting a loud sigh come loose. Then, they’d blink their eyes slowly twice, and return to whatever it was they were doing. How peculiar they all were, how curious!

I, once again, tried to return my attention to the Professor, who seemed to be introducing the two unknown men at his table as, “Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of Department of International Magical Cooperation,” and “Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

I clapped politely, seeing that Mr. Crouch was obviously the more serious of the two- for Mr. Bagman smiled widely at the hall. 

Dumbledore continued on about the tasks of the tournament, meant to test the competitors on magical ability, courage, and danger- chosen by the Goblet of Fire. Turning to an unusually large chest placed before him, Dumbledore tapped his wand gently on its top- the wood dripping away to reveal a great bronze chalice, brimming with bright blue flames. 

The Great Hall steeped itself in silence, admiring the holy goblet before them. Though, such revere lasted for only a mere moment, for the hall erupted once more into talk. 

“How does that think work?” whispered Ron, looking at Harry and Hermione.

“I dunno,” Harry replied, “But I reckon he’s about to tell us.”

“Now,” Dumbledore announced, “Those wishing to enter the Triwizard Tournament will write their name on a slip of paper, and throw it to the fire. The champions will be announced tomorrow during our Halloween feast.”

Looking over the students severely, Professor Dumbledore continued, “But be warned- enter your name only if you are sure you wish to compete. Once you are chosen, there can be no change of hearts. Best of luck to you all.”

Now excused, the Gryffindors, led by Fred and George, raced back to the common room- talking animatedly about their plans.

“Dumbledore said they’ll be an Age Line ‘round the goblet,’ Fred began, “that should be too hard to get around, right, Georgie?” 

“Right you are!” George replied, gathering a group of Gryffindors to listen to their plan. 

Laughing, I headed up to the girl’s dormitory, though stopped for a moment, just to yell at the twins, “If you find a way to enter, make sure to put my name in!” 

To which they replied in cheers- the way that Gryffindors do. 

The next morning, the school awoke in fervor, as students raced across the halls and corridors to enter their names into the goblet- many joining in to watch. Much of my day was spent hoarding into the Great Hall to watch the blue flames envelop names, then cheering along with the contender. Quite fun it was, though quite exhausting- causing me to steal away during the late afternoon, venturing a walk across the grounds.

Avoiding my usual path by the lake, I followed a quieter one- following up to the Whomping Willow, then back down near the Forbidden Forest. The path reigned in autumn beauty- flames of brass wrapping around my ankles, as the bare branches reached far into the sky. The brisk air invigorated me, how loftily it blew through my hair- brushing my skin. One could almost call it a companion- how alive the wind felt. 

I now bordered the forest, thick in danger as well as boughs. I’ve always felt so welcomed to it- the moss laid so gently, I wished the forest would send an invitation. But it wouldn’t today, as it was only mine to wonder- perhaps another day. 

Perhaps another day. 

I stayed out longer than expected, though returned to the castle quite promptly- allowing myself the time to change- then catching up with my fellow Gryffindors, hurrying excitedly to the Great Hall. 

Decorated in ghoulish style, the hall looked quite perfect for Halloween. The candles hung low to the tables, giving an ominous glow to the evening’s festivities- as ghosts lined the walls- they, too, eager to see what the goblet held in store.

“I’m glad Angelina put her name in the fire,” said Ron, clearing off his plate. “It feels good knowing at least one Gryffindor’s got their name in. Especially after what happened to Fred and George.” (Apparently, while I was out, Fred and George tried to enter the Age Line with a mere aging potion- to which they were rejected and given beards for their disobedience. I’m quite sorry I missed it.) 

“Though, my money’s on Krum.” He said as the feast ended. “I reckon--”

“Shh!” Hermione hushed him, “Dumbledore’s about to speak!”

Rising, Professor Dumbledore walked over to the Goblet of Fire, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Now,” he began, “I believe the goblet is ready to make its decision. Victors, when you are called, may I ask you to follow the professor’s table into the chamber next door--”

The goblet, interrupting Dumbledore, began sputtering- its hue changing red, as sparks drove violently across its brim. Growing fearsome, the scarlet flames brandished themselves to the hall- moving alike in mystery and eminence, their shadows laughing madly against the walls. From such a scene, a mere slip of paper spurt up, floating for a moment upon the air- then caught by the hand of Professor Dumbledore. Reading the slip, he called out, “Viktor Krum!”

Applause erupted from Durmstrang- Ron whooping with them- as Krum walked proudly through the hall, then into the side chamber.

“I knew he’d get picked!” said Ron, “I knew--”

The goblet interrupted again, as its red flames sprang, and a delicate blue parchment appeared with the name, “Fleur Delacour!”

Beauxbatons applauded with a dignified air, as a girl of enchanting beauty rose to meet it- she, now entering the other chamber.

“And now for our Hogwarts victor...” Dumbledore announced, as the goblet glowed red once more, “Cedric Diggory!”

Hogwarts erupted into cheers- those of which were especially loud coming from the Hufflepuff house. 

“How joyous it is to have our three contenders,” said Dumbledore. “Fearlessly facing--” 

I gasped, along with the entire hall, cutting the congratulations short- for the goblet grew red again, as sparks flew viouslously from its flames. Professors and students alike grew hushed in confusion, watching the goblet in fear and awe. Two slips burst in unison, tossed high above the scene- though falling in soft in terrible anticatation. My eyes grazed the professors for answers which they had not- though in their fervent plight, flashed upon Professor Snape’s- with whom my eyes locked- as Dumbledore read out:

“Harry Potter, and 

Hélosïe Dickens!”


	7. Chapter 7

Obscure was my path, it fell in a sudden haze. Was the precipice not before me? Did the stone nearly end? Bewildered was I, for was there no longer light and darkness to ail me- but another horror- one that I knew would resolve soon, but still afflicted me. 

The unknown does not scare me, but I do not fare well with surprise. In slow, monotonous climbs I persist; in rapture, I fall.

~

“Harry Potter, and 

Hélosïe Dickens!”

Dumbledore’s voice echoed within the Great Hall- its population silent, as his words struck coldly within the ears of all.

If Zeus were to hail down from the heavens, lighting bolt in hand, strike me in the left eye, then damn me for all eternity- I don’t think I could be more confused and distressed than I was now; my social terrors reigning over the punishment of gods. With the entire school now staring at both Harry and me, I froze in desperate wanting of release, of invisibility, of non-existence. I was never built for the eyes which stab me now, I was not fated to conquer such malice. 

A whisper from the Beauxbatons girl woke me from my desolate winter, to her, I must say I am much too grateful. She hissed, "Héloïse, c’est vous, non? Levez-vous.” 

Mechanically, I rose with the Beauxbatons girl’s instructions, and faced Professor Dumbledore, his face wearing an expression of surprise, though not anger.

“Come’on, Harry,” I muttered, passing him on my shameful walk down the aisle. 

Stumbling out from his seat, Harry and I walked to the front of the hall where the professors stood. I deprived myself from their dreaded gaze, as I led the way into the small chamber, in which the true victors were reserved. 

Entering the room, the three looked at us strangely, the faces glowing in the light of a fireplace. Shadows conversed about the walls, as Cedric Diggory began, “What are you--”

“By God!” The chamber door banged open. “What is the meaning of this?” shouted Professor Karkaroff, pushing into the room. The Hogwarts professors poured in quickly after, paired with Madame Maxine, Bagman, and Crouch.

“Now, Professor,” soothed McGonagall, “There must be some misunderstanding--”

“Misunderstanding?” he reddened, “You call this blatant act of treachery a ‘misunderstanding’?”

“I agree with Karkaroff,” projected Madame Maxine, “This is cheating, Professor Dumbledore, this cannot happen.”

Karkaroff pointed at Harry and me, “Take them out! They will not ruin our centuries old tradition--”

“There is no other choice, the Goblet of Fire has spoken.” spoke Mr. Crouch from the corner, his expression grave. “They must compete.”

“Bah!” Madame Maxime turned away in distressed fashion, painting quite the picture of scandal upon her sorry face. Unfortunately, Professor Karkaroff wasn’t so dismissive.

“Three Hogwarts champions? Do you expect us to take this quietly?” He seized our shoulders, looming his ugly head over us, “You must punish them--!”

“Hands off, Karkaroff,” Professor Snape, now at the forefront of the scene, looked murderously at Karkaroff- who in return, matched Snape’s fervor. I stared at the dark statue- a feeling of regard bubbling in my chest. Though glancing at Harry, it was clear the sentiment was not shared. “While you are here, Karkaroff, might I remind you that you cannot reign punishment over Hogwarts’ students. Be that as it may, I’d not put it past Potter to enter his name into the goblet, as he has been making trouble these last four years--”

“Severus, that is quite enough,” Dumbledore finally spoke, refuting Snape into silence. 

“Well, Dumbledore,” addressed Karkaroff, “What do you have to say?”

Barely acknowledging the Durmstrang Professor, Dumbledore asked calmly, “Harry, Hélosïe, did you put your names into the Goblet of Fire?”

“No, sir,” we said in unison, quite eager to prove our innocence.

“Did you get an older student to put it in for you?”

“No, sir,” we said again. 

“Is that it?” asked Madame Maxine, looking to Dumbledore. “Will they not be questioned?”

“Surely, you must do more!” demanded Karkaroff.

“I cannot contradict the goblet,” was Dumbledore’s response. “As Mr. Crouch said: they must compete.”

“But these are children!” Fleur Delacour spoke up, “It is unsafe for them!”

I felt my face redden under Delacour’s words- to be called a child! I haven’t thought myself a child in years, and to be regarded as one now? I was quite peeved- which perhaps shows my immaturity- to be bothered by her words in such a crisis. 

“Mr. Crouch knows the Tournament’s rules inside out, I’d know,” said Ludo Bagman, trying to reinstate allegiance between the schools. “But age restrictions are merely guidelines- wouldn’t it be quite marvelous to have two underage champions?”

“No, it would not,” Professor Snape sneered, “Dumbledore, this cannot happen. They barely have enough knowledge to pass their classes, how do you expect them to know enough to compete?” 

“I reckon they must know enough,” Professor Moody limped into the room, a great grimace on his face, “Or they’ll learn.”

His strange eye swiveled around in his head, landing on Professor Snape, continuing, “What I’d like to know, Professor, if they didn’t put their names in- is why Potter, and Dickens I suppose, would be wanted in the Tournament? Only a powerful wizard could Confound the goblet and enter their names. But by what means, would that wizard deem them necessary?”

Moody spit out his words harshly, looking from Snape to Karkaroff, his eye whizzing between the two. I suppose his days as an Auror has led him to his suspicion, obvious in his wanting of a formal accusation. Though luckily for the two professors, McGonagall interrupted, before Professor Moody could become too unrelenting in his paranoia. 

“Well, by whatever reasons, all five must compete- that much is clear. However, we need not deprive them of their rest, they’ll need it in the upcoming months. We shall continue talk in the morning.”

The chamber stood still for a moment, as if we were all awaiting divine intervention- or anything, for that matter, to explain how to proceed. The professors were at a loss, though pretended to be sure; I felt not even present, though feigned my existence. I felt as if I’d been pushed harshly into an unknown world of expectation, and shoved was I- though still left unwanted. Devoid of control, merely placed, and still I was gawked for my being there. Simply, I was now the heroine within the narrative, but nobody wished me there. Of course, I did not belong- but was it right? Was it right of them to be so unnerved by my presence? Not because it was wrong to cheat the Tournament, but because it was I who was cheating? 

But I was not cheating, I did not cheat! It had barely occurred to me that some outside force had put my very name into the goblet, and for reasons completely unknown. Who was I to anyone? I had no enemies nor friends, who would care enough- to whose advantage would I be? It scared me, admittedly, to be so unsure- to be now enveloped in chaos and confusion, its waves running over me. Neither darkness or light took me, but another will- one uncertain in its form, though frightening in concept. I knew not its name yet, though hastened to discover it- for power lies in names, and certainty in conviction.

“Potter,” Professor Moody growled, striking firmly into the silence. “You better come with me- now.”

Harry, who stayed quite still during the Professors’ discord, now stirred, scrambling over to Moody and looking at me rather sheepishly.

“Professor, Professor!” interrupted McGonagall, “Shouldn’t the boy rest?”

“He’ll get plenty of that soon,” Moody replied.

“And Miss Dickens- what of her?”

Professor Moody scanned me over briefly, “She’ll be fine.”

I nearly laughed out loud at such a remark- for the obvious lack of want for my repugnant self was so clearly displayed, it was if the world stopped in its plight of discretion. That it wished for me to see how undesired I was- so much so, that it fell to extreme prominence to reveal such a secret. Even in the light, I was still shadowed- and that humored me. 

Tears pricked my eyes as I watched them go, though in my throat was a chuckle- a villainous laugh to which my misfortunes and neglect wished to contort themselves. I kept it in, though I suppose I looked quite strange in the fire light- with a creeping smile and wide eyes. Fighting hard to repress my spite, I stared deep into the hearth’s flames, dwelling further in the course of madness- mad, that what I was. Utterly crazed, unstable. I felt the brimmings burn within me, they, those awful things that wished for air. I feared them more than anything- madness betook me- madness, madness, madness. I now knew its name. 

“Miss Dickens will come with me,”

The Professor’s voice snatched me from my insanity- pulling me up above its waves. I looked from the fire, swiftly into the face of which the words hailed- the dark, sullen face of Severus Snape.


	8. Chapter 8

Strangely, the fog limped in hazy form- though the grey never stopped to question. Lifeless and soulless do the wretched walk, in agony and beauty, in cowardice and will. I was not with them, but their screams carried the waves- crashing upon the stone edge. Mist flickers in and out, I refuse it- let me return to my choice, to my cliff, to the precipice. 

~

I was quite grateful to see the Great Hall emptied by the time I left the small chamber, for I do not think I could cater to the eyes which pried so insufferably, so taciturn. Though in my daze, I hardly believe their attention would cause me more turmoil in my already wretched state. 

I couldn’t process much of the happenings around me- to which I was slightly surprised, for I believe I’m rather good at keeping a level head. I suppose I appeared quite calm, but I felt immersed in a thick fog- twirling my senses into oblivion. In a dream-like mist I entered such disarray and abnormality, all the while pinching myself- to be sure I was awake.

Oh, I must damn myself for a weak display of maturity! I cannot continue on in cowardly petrification! I must be present, I’ll force it upon myself. I shall swoop down from the clouds which I ride, and meet the chaos on Earth- I will deflect no longer. 

Quickly after such a revelation did the haze subside, as I pushed the fog to my peripheral. And only then did I recognize the shadowy figure before me, and only then did I remember it was Professor Snape who vouched my mentorship. Of course, I wasn’t sure if I was to be instructed or questioned- nor was I sure which I wanted more. The former would be unknown, though the latter was most certain. I liked certainty- comforting were its patterns, though, I believe the anxieties of the unknown intrigued me more. To choose anxiety over comfort is strange, though I believe I would- and if I would, would that mean I’d choose my current position? To be in such unrelenting discomfort? 

It seems the more I learn myself, the more I question my motives. I am allowed doubt, am I not? I am several, therefore I am unsure. 

Returning to the physical, I noticed the Professor led us down mysterious halls and corridors, some passages I’ve never before seen. I was rather glad of the vacancy, for I didn’t wish to be observed- quite a new experience for the observer. My thoughts jumped to Potter and Moody, wondering what Moody wished of him and what they talked of. Professor Moody, being the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, was likely to know much of the Tournament, and able to produce relevant advice to win- or at least to not be fool. I do believe the champions are allowed an instructor, which is quite a pleasant thought.

Descending a tight stairwell, and under-lit at that, the Professor pushed open a wooden door- which creaked ominously into the Potions classroom. Awkwardly, I followed him into the chamber and stood near the just entered door as Snape brushed past me, barely giving me notice. He remained silent for a moment, looking away, till I was slightly worried he forgot I was there. 

“There is no getting around it, you must compete in the Tournament.” spoke the Professor rather suddenly, his eyes now resting on me. “I quite believe Potter put his name in; however, you did not.”

“How do you know that, Professor?” I looked at him, “I could’ve entered mine, just as you think Potter did.”

“Are you admitting to it?”

“No, though you shouldn’t judge him harsher than you judge me.” 

“Potter has no merit.”

“Neither do I.”

“Yes, you do.” he glared at me, “I don’t see why you’re so apt on defending Potter, but nevertheless, he is not the concern.” 

In truth, I didn’t understand why I stood up for Harry either. Perhaps it was because we both fell under the Triwizard burden, or maybe it was the strange desire to prove a point- whatever which, I did not know. 

I paused for a moment, and faced Professor Snape head on. For the first time this evening, I truly saw him and his countenance. He appeared afflicted- distressed, even. It was odd to see such varying emotion upon the Professor’s face, or at least that of which he could not hide. The cold, unfeeling face now warmed with disarray- but surely, it wasn’t due to my participation in the night’s events? I couldn’t be daft enough to think that? We were so little to each other that mere irritation should’ve only overcome the usual indifference- not grief?

Snape scowled at my study. Turning away, he continued, “The focus now is keeping you alive.”

His stress on ‘alive’ surprised me, though worried me as well. Should I be that concerned with my survival? No doubt, the games would be hard (though I’ve yet to give it much thought), but is truly a threat to my existence? Not that I highly favor living, but I am not keen on dying ~just~ yet.

I suppose my skin was a bit pale and my eyes flushed, for Professor Snape sternly pointed to a chair, and said “Sit,” 

I did. 

“Until we know what the first task is, you must learn defense and attack strategies- along with their spells. I will not tolerate sloppiness or inability. You will be exact and studious, I expect nothing less.”

“And you’ll be teaching me, professor?”

“Was that not clear?”

I begged not an answer. 

“By the next time we meet, you shall have these books,” he turned to write on a slip of paper, “and have read them thoroughly. This note should allow you entrance into the Restricted section.”

He handed me the parchment, containing the names of three books:

‘Dark and Dutiful Arts’

‘Ancient Spells and their Uses’

‘Complex Attack Analytics’

Nodding, I responded a simple, “Yes, sir.”

“You shall return here every Friday afternoon to practice.”

“Yes--”

“Now, leave.”

The bitter wind of which those words were carried stung harshly, as I felt my chest brace the cold. The severe manner of the goodbye hurt me honestly, though I admit, my sensitivity must be reeled back in. Offense has lost its role in my situation, I deserve the luxury no more. 

I turned to leave the chamber, exiting the usual way, as I heard the Professor sit back at his desk. Following my now routine glance back, I believe I perhaps saw (I say perhaps as a buffer, for I highly doubt this sight- highly impossible it is), I perhaps saw, (god, I must let myself describe it- though, of course, I say perhaps encouragingly), I saw the Professor for a mere second- though within such- he sat stricken, his head limp in his hands, engulfed in black. 

I sincerely doubt myself in such vision, though it struck me dearly. I stopped myself from any implications within the picture, I dare not deceive myself, I dare not be the fool. I cannot afford such helplessness, not now- never.

Hastening through the school, I was fortunate to not see a single soul- man or ghost- within the halls I traveled. Though leveling to the Gryffindor common room, I was stopped before of the Fat Lady by the voice of Professor McGonagall.

“Miss Dickens, I assume Professor Snape is to mentor you through the games?”

She peered down through her tiny spectacles, looking quite cold in her heightened sternness. She terrified me now- as if she didn’t before- but the opposite of her favor upset me. It was true I walked the line of median, though it was not my intention to fall wrongly- I hadn’t thought I’d fall at all. But stiffly, she looked down, and with stiffness, I believe she regarded me poorly.

“He is, Professor,”

“Good. Professor Moody is planning to look after Mr. Potter- you both ought to have someone.”

I nodded meekly, though my eyes remained level. I felt increasingly ashamed for a crime I hadn’t committed- though I believed none unfair in their plight, for what was my word? What were my explanations against the goblet’s proof? I abhorred the idea of deflecting my misfortunes to excuses, and I wished for none to make. Though to sit quietly and accept the unjust consequences of not my actions- that, I could not. 

“Professor?” I called to McGonagall- she, half-way down the moving stairs. 

Stopping mid-stair, she spun, facing me quite pointedly, “Yes?”

“I didn’t enter my name,” I said simply- just that, I thought, nothing more.

Her face softened slightly, “Goodnight, Miss Dickens.”

Turning her heel, she descended the stairs, and revolved quickly out of sight. Abandoned was I now, with none but the Fat Lady for company.


	9. Chapter 9

Nostalgia brings back a light so warm, so ripe in its young sun- that it pains remembrance, and exiles memory. My hands grip such softness tightly, the innocence of ignorance cascading upon me in golden mirages of happiness. I let its fountain submerge me above the eyes- for a moment, a mere moment, let me rest, let me feel, let me seek what I’ve not forgiven, let me love the untrusted. 

Longings do not prevail, as much as we yearn. They subside, and quieten, and shadow themselves in bittersweet lies. I’ve learned better than the fool, I’ve been better.

~

It was my birthday- November 1st- but I told no one, and no one knew. I believe in my first-year, I had somehow convinced my house that I had a summer birthday- I’m not quite sure why, I suppose I didn’t like the attention. I never liked my birthdays as much as my expectations did, and unreasonably disappointed they’d fall. I condemn myself for such ungratefulness, though, I mustn’t hide unwanted truth. 

I was quite reluctant to join the Great Hall in breakfast, or to even awake at all. Nevertheless, I prepared myself- ready for the inevitable eyes that were to breach my peace. I shoved homework into my bag and hurried down, praying my expectations to deceive me once more- but alas! they did not, as every head turned to my entrance. I pretended not to notice (though I believe that impossible), and carried myself to the Gryffindor table- fortunately, I spotted Potter already there. He seemed to be in a heated conversation with Ron- Hermione acting as the mediator between them. Placing myself nearby, I listened in on their argument. 

“Ron, I swear, I didn’t enter my name!” spoke Harry in hushed verse.

“Yeah, right,”

“I don’t know how it happened—”

“I’ll tell you how! You figured out a way and didn’t think to tell your best friend.”

“Ronald, don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”

“Shove off, Hermione, this doesn’t concern you.”

“But if Harry said he didn’t enter his name—”

“Of course you’d take his side!” Ron grew louder, “Who’d ever choose lousy Ron Weasley over Harry Potter? His stupid best friend- a laughable git!”

“Ron, it’s not like that,”

“Isn’t it?” He stood up, “I’m going to Hogsmeade with Fred and George just so you know, in case you want to apologize.”

I avoided Ron’s gaze as he trudged pass, quickly taking a book from my bag in effort to look occupied. Feigning interest in a Herbology chapter about block-headed slugs and their contributions to Gillyweed, I continued my eavesdropping. 

“I don’t understand what’s got into him,” said Harry, exasperated. “I already told him I didn’t enter- I don’t even want to be in the damn Tournament.”

“He’s probably just upset that you always seem to get the most attention--”

“Do you think I want it, Hermione? To be stared at every time I walk into a room?”

“Well, no--” she stuttered.

“Just because I’m the ‘Chosen One’?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” 

Noticing Hermione’s hurt from the exchange, Harry said hurriedly, “Look, I’m sorry. I- I just wish Ron would believe me, that’s all.”

“Just give him time, he can’t stay angry forever. But the truth is, you and El--” Hermione glanced nervously my way, then lowered her voice, “Er… _you_ ’ve been picked, whether you like it or not, and it’s not going to be easy.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Hermione,”

“What I’m saying is that you can’t let this row with Ron affect your chances. You must be completely focused on the tasks ahead, with or without his support. Harry, this is dangerous! I’ve been researching: people have died competing in the Tournament--”

“Dumbledore won’t allow--”

“Yes, but you can never be too sure.” she looked around anxiously, “I believe your name being entered was not an accident, so we must be extremely careful-- oh, post’s here.”

I jumped back at Hermione’s quick cut-off, looking up to see owls swoop into the Great Hall, dropping letters and parcels on student’s heads. I suppose I was quite invested, for I realized I was leaning in closely to Harry and Hermione’s whispers- though, I quickly reinstated my indifference. 

“Oh, looks like Ron’s got a letter,” Hermione remarked, “I should probably find him… to give it- you know?,” she looked awkwardly at Harry.

“Right, fine- yeah.” he said, irritated. 

I watched her leave the hall- right as Neville walked in. Sheepishly, he came over to me, sitting slightly further from me than usual. “Er… morning, Eloise,”

I nodded to him, returning to my book. It was quite obvious he’d rather not converse with me- myself a delinquent, after all. Not wishing to impose discomfort upon him, I stayed silent. 

“Wh- what are you reading?” he asked, taking me by surprise. I really must not rely too heavily on my preconceived assumptions- Neville’s undeserved friendliness served as a reminder. 

“Herbology- Gillyweed, in particular.”

“Oh!” he brightened, “I quite like Herbology, Professor Sprout said that I’m a natural! Are you reading ahead?”

“Yeah, a little,” I lied.

“D’you mind if I can see? I lost my book, I haven’t got a clue where it’s gone.”

“Of course,” I handed him the book.

“Fascinating! Did you know Gillyweed actually grows in the Black Lake? It’s quite useful when-- ow!”

An envelope from the heavens plopped down upon Neville’s head, sweeping upon the open book- courtesy of a great barn owl. Picking it up, Neville said, “Oh, Eloise, it’s for you,”

Unfortunately, I recognized the handwriting much too well. 

“Who’s it from?” asked Neville- a question I found rather intrusive. 

“No one,” I said, swiftly hiding the letter within my bag as I stood, gathering my things.

“Where're you going?”

“Library,” 

“Do you want your book back?”

“Er, no- I mean, just- just give it back tomorrow?” I answered hurriedly, already walking down the hall.

“Oh, alright!” was the meek response. 

In my plight, I barely noticed the dark Potion’s Master standing upon the threshold of the hall, to which I mumbled a quick, “Professor,” then proceeded through the long corridor- to which I felt his suspicious gaze follow me thereafter.

The Library was mildly busy, very much normal on a Sunday morning. I suppose it’s my new fate to be stared at upon every entrance, for the Library left no alternative. Quickly seeking out the librarian, Madam Pince, to verify Professor Snape’s note, she led me to the caged Restricted Section- giving me a stern study before unlocking the gate with a ‘hmph!’. 

I was quite grateful to be in the bounds of guarded limits, for no eyes could gawk me in its reclusion. Sighing, I dropped my bag to the floor, the dreaded letter weighing it down immensely. I knew what the letter contained, and wished not to read it- not yet, though I would, I always have. 

Strolling about the dark corners, I perused the various spines of ominous text, quite interesting in their dark formality. Most were swabbed in cobwebs and dust- mysteries left unknown for centuries. I sought out the books Snape had sent me for; plain, worn things- unspectacular compared to the curiosity before me. Setting them upon my bag, I began searching for books more inspiring in their unnaturalness. I fingered through a plethora of titles, each name more horrifying than the next- some even bleeding ink upon its cover. 

Curiously, a tiny scribble reappeared several times in the volumes I surfed, reading ‘The Half-Blood Prince’. Intriguing it was- though perhaps it was a coined name for Madam Pince, as ‘Prince’ and ’Pince’ sounded quite similar. One book in particular, 'The Darkest Curses in the Height of Mankind’, contained numerous notes by the same Prince, which I found increasingly alluring as my interest grappled me. 

Hiding it deep in my bookbag from the eyes of Madam Pince, I exited the Restricted Section and took a detour through the measly Muggle Archives. Not many wandered about these shelves, I suppose Muggle books were nothing compared to those of Wizards. However, fiction is another form of magic- that I believe quite true. 

Taking a volume of poetry (alas! I am a romantic at heart!), I proceeded to check out. Quite a fiend am I for 19th century literature- I had already read most of what Hogwarts had to offer. Contradicting my surname, I was not extremely keen upon Charles Dickens- preferring Tolstoy and the Brontë’s much more. I loved any poetry, if not too dramatic, though favored Emily Dickinson immensely- her words performing symphonies and requiems aloft. I could talk of literature for hours if any were willing, though unfortunately, none were so. Nevertheless, I read on excitedly- taking the poems as a birthday treat.

The rest of the day was spent by the lake, sitting before my favored willow. I finished my homework quickly, as to have the afternoon to leisurely sift through poems and curses. I adored such time alone- and alone was I, for the cold November breeze swept most of the students indoors, leaving me in the gray sky’s company. 

How could one live without dearest November- lulling gently of winters past and those to come? Such soft melancholy echoes about the month, the sentiment which seems quite prone to my thoughts. To live within the boughs of November would be ecstasy! No, I reprimand such passionate words, for ‘ecstasy’ is the wrong one- but how do I express such joy? ‘Contentment’ and ‘delight’ would not do- but bliss? Bliss. Should such a word exist, it should be for November. 

_Bliss, bliss, bliss._

I listened awhile to the wavering coos of the bare branches, looking out across the lake. To stay like this, in my serenity, would equate to the best birthday I’ve had. To celebrate my fifteen years with the wind and sky- how grateful I am. I knew, however, such peace would not last- shattering with the tenant of my bookbag.

The unopened envelope haunted me still- though hidden, it tore at me. The letter was a birthday wish from my parents- I knew it without inspection. I didn’t want to read it- more than that, every sound inch of my mind revolted the idea- it screamed torturous things, terrible things, and I believed each and every voice. Though, however much my head curdled and heart sobbed, I knew I would read it.

As still as the lake was I now, the sun just tapering upon the mountains. I reflected upon my family. I didn’t wish to talk of them much, for they pained me excessively. Simply, I was more desolate and isolated in their house than I was anywhere, or with anyone else. I hated each day I lived, and prayed for living to end. I was tired and defeated. I never had much of a childhood- I grew old young (whether in my own protection or plight, I do not know), but became immensely independent from need. Although I was loved, and loved greatly, I would sicken in its path. I wished not for love or to be loved. I was loved too much, though not nearly enough at all. I was neglected, though shrouded in inquiries. I was turbulent, so very turbulent, though let none in upon my secret. I lived in contradictions; I shall not elaborate further. 

The sun was now dipped between the hills, and dusk rolled out its majesties before me. I wished not to read the letter, I truly wished not to. But with cold hands, I neatly opened the envelope and stared at the insultingly pink card before me. A small pouch slipped out, clearly enchanted with an Alleviating Charm, as its contents consisted of 30 galleons though weighing no more than a feather. This angered me- I never did ask them for gifts (for I thought it rather unfair to ask things of people I didn’t like), and considered it demeaning to be given the money. It conducted a guilty feeling, for it felt I had now opened a debt, owing them in ways I didn’t wish owed.

Setting the pouch to the side, I returned to the letter. My participation in the Triwizard Tournament couldn’t have reached my parents so quickly, though in truth, I didn’t care much if it did. I was only terrified of their remembrance of me, not their inevitable disappointment. I didn’t wish them to think of me, as I didn’t wish to think of them. 

The sky darkened further in my needless observations- there was nothing more to think or do, I must read. Carefully, I opened the card, as emotion swarmed my path. Carefully, I read on. Carefully, I fought back my sentiments. And carefully, I returned the letter to its envelope. 

I read it. I did. I read it. And now I must forget. I’ll try to forget. I could not, though I must try. 

I crumpled inwardly. Crashing to each side were the waves of desperation- for what, I do not know. Perhaps normality or preservation? For desert or family? Oh, how I did wish for family! How my bones ached under my willful determination for resentment! How my heart wailed in favor of forgiveness, thrashing for the hands of another! I wept silently with my willow. Why must I bind myself to a dismal fate, why can I not let go? Could I not spread my arms now, and welcome love? The light that I crave? Why do I push it away? Why do I make myself so miserable and barren? Why do I hold my damned sorrows close, and beg pity of the stars? I hate the world I created- to be unraveled by insignificant letters of pride and love. They loved me, I could have a home- but I chose against it. I damn myself- it is my choice to live in windswept lands, it is my choice to riot against companionship- how can I cry now?

I looked up to the sky, now awake with the Incorruptibles. It is my nature to be still, to be alone. As much as my soul tumbles in turmoil, and cries for warmth: I shall remain still, I shall remain alone. How foolish I was to think otherwise. 

My cheeks were clammy, though my eyes were now dry. From my view, the Great Hall looked so inviting- its windows tall in golden light. I decided to go up, contrary to my previous ‘agonies’, for something to eat. I felt I needed the stability of something filling- to feel full despite the emptiness which catered me. Dramatics aside, it was clear I needed food. 

Packing my things quickly, I walked briskly into the castle, hoping to form in with others on their way to dinner. Quietly, I submerged myself amidst the crowd, following the rowdy students to the Gryffindor table. I suppose I looked rather inhospitable, for no one dared conversation. At most, they motioned to pass the potatoes, or to slide over to fit a friend. I did not know if I was grateful or upset by their lack of inclusion- though, I don’t believe I could fairly hold up a trivial talk of quidditch or homework. I resolved to be grateful, and ate my food hastily. 

I was long finished when the feast was in full force, and humored myself by looking out the great window. Though, I couldn’t look out, could I? The light inside made the night appear black- corruption my vision to such a scene. Strangely, the enchanted ceiling did not appease me either. I hated such artificial stars- they were suffocating. I looked about the hall around me- it was all suffocating. I didn’t wish to fight the feeling, I wanted the disgust to fill me- I wanted to feel anger as I never felt, I wanted to hate. 

I stood up, and slipped away into the cool corridors- unaware anyone noticed I left. Of course they would, though unbothered would my absence be, and glad of it I was. I breathed openly now- all I wished really was to look at the night. Just one measly look would comfort me, to feel its glory for a moment- I believed it would. 

Stepping out onto an unlit courtyard, I threw my head to the heavens. The moon and stars entreated me, lifted me, and filled me fill with the achings of their eternities. I longed to be with them, to stroll across their depths and parade their beauty- to leave my disgusting body behind, to escape wicked mortality, to throw the damned letter to the flames. 

Feeling the weight of tragedy, I began to walk. I knew where I was to go, following the known curves and dips of Hogwarts’ grounds. It was my time, I was finally welcome. The sky smiled and the wind blew me on, they all welcomed me, didn’t they? Was I to become a part of something grand? Was I to tip upon the cliff- was I to at last fall?

Standing before the Forbidden Forest, I entered excitedly- feeling the wings of ecstasy breathe me through the trees. It felt as if I walked upon them than through them- how I craved such such delight! I was running now, tears streaming, though beaming wildly. To feel limitless, to be multiple! I felt alive- for the first time in fifteen years I had lived!

I stopped suddenly, and fell to the ground- my body racked with tears. The dreamy fog that I had entered faded- firmly, I let it go. Lived had I, though it ended; and sadly, I did not die. Who was I to take hold of life and live it as death? How could I let turmoil reach euphoria? To trade imaginings for reason- to betray my logic- had I the right?

In truth, I believed I only wished to grieve: to grieve my bitterness in sorrow, to grieve the loneliness that plagues me, to grieve the achings of the past, and to grieve when I could not. 

Quite calmly, I pulled the letter from my bag (which had surprisingly stayed with me), and turned it over in my hands. I stared at it for a long while, before a voice called me softly from my state.

“Time to go,”

Turning, Professor Snape stood still behind me- blending in quite perfectly to the quiet mystery of the forest. 

I was not shocked- I believe my hysterics alleviated all sense of surprise for the time being. I stood, though did not move. A look of pain befell the Professor’s face, his eyes now seeing the torturous card within my hand. I hid it away, as embarrassment flooded my senses- myself, rejoining partly to the present. 

I wished to speak, to say anything- and I believe he did too, but we could not. However, a new sentiment emerged- one of familiarity and circumstance. The dreadful emotions of my existence, I realized, were reflective of the Professor’s- we shared a common ground. To articulate such would be difficult- but in the blooming of unhappiness we entered and lived. Perhaps it's due to our foolish notions, or actual situation- but the garden now opened, and I now saw it clearly before me. 

“I cannot go back,” the wind breathed through me, echoing my words about the trees. 

It was true, I’d never return to _them_ , not truly. My soul refined itself to that distinction- of truth and protection. I knew it now, and knew it well- I could never return; I cannot go back.

Even in such mysticism, I believe Professor Snape knew to whom I was referring, and to what I feared. Though horror swallowed me still- for the intimacy in my phrase- the secret I had let go; I now realized the plight of my words, and the meanings they hailed. I should’ve stayed silent, I should’ve stayed still! In simple words does my soul lay bare, and I had laid it out to flesh. 

Fear hovered my eyes, though I sensed the Professor understood once more. Only then did he nod simply, softly- and slowly, we tread back to the castle. 

I believe I still thought myself in a dream, for not once did my feet touch the forest ground. I floated gently upon the tip of stone, walking the edge finely- caution now returning to the precipice. I felt myself return too, I was glad of it. 

We reached the castle in silence, our steps lofting upon the courtyard. Standing within Night’s sphere, we ought to have separated- though an uncomfortable feeling of obligation befell us. A simple ‘goodnight’ would not do- considering the evening’s events- though a speech of reprimand or encouragement seemed hardly right. 

Wishing to escape such awkwardness, I started to the great stone arches rounding the corridors. 

“You do not have to keep it.” 

I turned back to the Professor- statue-like and cold in the dark air. 

I smiled faintly, looking firmly out to him, “I do.” 

Left was he in Night- I fell back to the castle, seeking now the warmth of my bed, and the heavenly gift of sleep. My body drifted through the halls, my mind elsewhere- feeling a phantom in my desolate haze. Far past curfew was it, though hushed voices whispered about corners, and shadows lifted from the walls. I didn’t care- I was past tangible fears. Reality shifted, though I only wished for sleep.

Entering the Gryffindor common room, it was strange to see the tower so unoccupied and dark. Silence breathed itself between the tapestry and stone, as warmth retired to sleep. I followed the steps to the girl’s dormitory, where the soft inhales of peace concurred. 

Quietly, I stole the trunk from under my bed- creaking it open slightly. A small biscuit tin reflected faintly, as I slipped my letter softly into its care. Paired with my other trifles, its pain would be kept safe, though sure. A reminder it would serve- or perhaps a poem, one of a mutilated and treacherous love, of mangle desire and heartache. I reburied the trunk, falling gently into bed. There, I let the lullaby of oblivion sing sweetly- the tin of poems soft in melody. 

And there- did I finally rest.


End file.
